Key to the Stars

by Kevin Domenic

  *******

  Arus watched in horror as his last hope for freedom seemingly slipped away, watched as Vultrel and Master Eaisan raised their swords against him, watched as they frantically tried to kill him. His life was flashing before his eyes—it had been doing so since arriving—yet his body only exuded confidence, meeting every strike with ease, and responding with several more. There was no way for him to convey his true feelings to Master Eaisan, no way to stop himself from attacking his best friend, and no way to kill the man responsible for all of it. And if things continued as they were, the boiling abundance of fear and panic within were going to drive his soul over the edge of madness.

  Just kill me, Master Eaisan! Please, Vultrel, kill me!

  As the duel raged on, a group of Mages joined from the Great Hall. Apparently the fighting there had subsided enough for them to come, though if word of the attack spread to the rest of Cathymel, it would likely bring the bulk of King Sarathon's Royal Guard running to defend His Majesty. Truce had sent men to comb the castle and ensure the silence of the warning bell atop the center tower, leaving only word of mouth to spread news of the Mages infiltration. If luck was on Truce's side—and Arus prayed it was not—then the king would be long dead before any of the guardsmen suspected something was wrong.

  The audience of Mages grew at the entrance to the Throne Room as black-vested men gathered on either side of Sartan Truce to witness the culmination of his hard work and research. Cheers rose every time Arus parried a particularly complex attack from his opponents, though inside, each deflection made his heart sink further. When the tip of his weapon sliced a long gash down Vultrel's arm, it nearly plummeted to his feet. Please, someone, anyone, stop this! Kitreena, where are you? Stop me before I hurt anyone else!

  In an unexpected move, Arus switched his sword to his right hand in mid-swing to block Eaisan's attack, and snatched the blade of Vultrel's sword with his mechanical hand. Vultrel, wide-eyed with surprise, yanked on the weapon several times before Arus twisted it from his grip and sent it clattering across the floor. Vultrel scrambled after it, and Arus drove Eaisan back with a sharp kick to the chest before leaping toward his best friend, sword raised, red sights set on his target. The implant's scanners showed Eaisan already chasing after him again, and his former master's sword swiped in from the right to block Arus' blade. He held his weapon firmly against Eaisan's, eyes locked, teeth bared.

  "You will not have him until you've defeated me, Arus," Eaisan said. His face was hard, but his voice somber. "If it is a fight to the death that you want, it is yours. But I will do everything my power to prevent you from harming my son."

  No! Master Eaisan, you can't defeat me on your own! You need Vultrel's help! Otherwise, you'll—

  "Vultrel." Eaisan spared only a split-second glance at his son. "I want you to go look after the king. Make sure he is safe, and instruct Martine to get him as far away from Cathymel as he can."

  "He'll do no such thing," Truce said as he approached the two. "I will not allow the boy to escape so easily; he is to follow in Arus' footsteps, and the sons of Dayne and Eaisan will serve and protect me until long after the kyrosen have returned to their former glory!"

  Vultrel finally scrambled to his feet, this time focusing his anger on Truce. "You," he seethed through his teeth, "will pay for everything you've done!"

  Olock was beside Sartan now, handing him an old sword with a tarnished yellow hand guard. "I'd love to see you try to make that happen, boy," Truce was saying. "I didn't exactly expect you to go willingly anyway."

  Everything happened at once. Eaisan knocked Arus away with his sword and followed with a flowing sequence of thrusts and slices, following every form he'd ever taught Arus and then some. Several paces away, Vultrel raced to meet Truce, swinging his sword over his head in a grand flourish before bringing it down to meet his opponent's blade. The four of them dueled for what seemed like hours, back and forth across the Throne Room in a dance of styles and techniques only mastered by the most battle-hardened warriors. Arus knew Vultrel's abilities—he could defeat Truce if it were but a battle of swords—but Truce commanded powers that neither he nor Eaisan understood or possessed, and that would inevitably give him the edge in the end.

  The rest of the Vermillion Mages watched, most with smiles on their faces, applauding every time Truce executed a smooth series of maneuvers, and cheering more when he defended against Vultrel's techniques. Those that watched Arus did so mostly in astonishment, their eyes glazed as though they were hypnotized by what they were seeing. Even Arus was amazed by Eaisan's ability to keep up with the implant's rapid succession of strikes. Every swipe of his sword, every stab of his blade, it was all turned away by Eaisan's stone wall of defense.

  "Arus, listen to me," Eaisan said quietly between strokes. "Do not give up hope. Anton found an escape from that bloody thing. You can do it, too. Just dig deep inside yourself, and force yourself to remember who controls your body!"

  As much as he tried, every ounce of Arus' own will and determination was easily shoved aside by the implant. It overrode everything and anything he tried to do, holding him prisoner to Truce's disgusting orders. I wish I could, Master Eaisan! I really wish—

  A sound in the distance caught his attention, though his body continued the assault on Eaisan as though it didn't exist. It was quiet at first, but it grew louder with each repetition, erasing the smiles from the faces of Truce's men, and Sartan himself had to leap away from his duel with Vultrel to give himself a moment to listen.

  The warning bell atop Castle Asteria was ringing.

  Immediately, Truce started shouting out orders. "I thought I ordered Maoz and Nevin to make sure no one rang that bell! Get up there and silence that thing, or I'll have Arus make new vests out of your hides!"

  The troops ran from the room with cheers of "For the kyrosen!" and "Warriors to battle!" They didn't get very far.

  A brilliant streak of crimson shot over their heads and crashed into the ceiling of the Throne Room with a squeal, leaving a blackened scorch-mark behind. Several more followed, intertwined with cries of pain and shouts of warning. "Incoming enemies!"

  Sartan glanced back for a moment, the grin finally gone from his face. "We're going to have to wrap this up, I'm afraid."

  Arus could hear the duel resume to his right, but his vision was solidly focused on Eaisan. He was panting heavily with beads of sweat dripping down his forehead as he met Arus' weapon again and again, left and right, high and low, forward and back. Vaguely, an awareness of the tremors beneath his feet crept in, and when Arus sidestepped several of Eaisan's attacks, the open doors of the Throne Room came into view. And what a startling view it was.

  The Mages had been pushed back into the room and were beginning to fan out, some brandishing swords while others conjured balls of fire and ice in their palms. The newcomers, dressed in odd uniforms of brown and black and red, held devices similar to the one F'Ledro kept strapped to his side. Each one appeared to be a less powerful version of the light-weapon Truce had incorporated into his cybernetic eye. Streak after streak of crimson energy flew from the barrels, downing Mages and dotting the walls with smoking black marks. Still, Truce's men held their own—those weapons provided little defense against swords—and they seemed to be taking down as many of the unidentified soldiers as they lost of their own. Bodies littered the floor, and Arus lost sight of Truce and Vultrel amidst the chaos. He and Eaisan continued to battle as though they were the only ones there, dancing and flowing across the floor in their seemingly endless struggle.

  And the bell atop the castle continued to toll. Regardless of who these men in brown were—Did that one have a blue face!?—the Royal Guardsmen were certainly on their way by now.

  "I see him! Damien, he's up here!"

  The shout came from just outside the doorway, though if Arus' hearing hadn't been enhanced by the implant, he never would've heard it. It was a voice h
e'd prayed would come; if anyone could help free him from the implant's hold, it would be Kitreena.

  The familiar crack of her whip followed, but his duel shifted him sideways again, blocking his view of the door. The implant's focus was only on Eaisan; Kitreena was nothing more than another dot on his scanners. He stepped forward, forcing Eaisan back, again and again, until they neared the throne itself. His master's strength was fading, his endurance waning, his knees buckling. Eaisan fought with every ounce of determination he had, not once letting his face show fear. But Arus knew—rather, the implant knew; telling the two apart was becoming harder and harder—that the man who'd once led the charge against the Vermillion Mages had finally met his match, and with not an ounce of fatigue to hinder his movements, there was little to stop Arus from claiming victory over his longtime mentor. Eaisan stumbled and fell to one knee, and Arus' sword rose for the kill.

  "Arus, stop!!"

  It was Kitreena's voice, followed by the crack of her whip. The impact of the weapon against his steel hand registered on the implant's sensors, but did nothing to loosen his grip on his sword. Eaisan's eyes were glazed over, and as the unreal strength of his cybernetic limb drove the blade through both armor and heart, Arus ears were filled with the sound of Vultrel's scream. No! NO!! This can't be happening! Master Eaisan! MASTER EAISAN!! NO!!

  Eaisan's sword dropped from his hand as he fell to the floor, back against the throne. "Forgive me . . . Arus . . . I have . . ." His eyelids sank as a gurgling sound choked off his final words. Only stillness followed.

  Master Eaisan! Forgive me, please! Vultrel, I'm so sorry!

  The implant shifted Arus' attention to Vultrel, who continued his duel with Truce several paces to the left. Tears streamed down the boy's face; he'd obviously seen his father's defeat. And he would be Arus' next target. In the name of the Maker, why couldn't I have stopped it? Why couldn't someone else have stopped it? Vultrel, Kitreena, anyone! Just . . . kill me! It's the only way to stop this bloody thing!! Finish me off before it's too late!